


Christmas Eve

by cyphernaut



Series: Miles to Go [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Christmas, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 08:04:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1104432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John wants to celebrate Christmas.</p><p>A Christmas interlude in "The Miles to Go Before I Sleep" universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Christmas Eve

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to post this on Christmas Eve, but I got bogged down with family obligations, sorry.

_John wants to spend Christmas Eve at your house. Send a car at 5:00. -SH_

_He'll expect a proper Christmas dinner. -SH_

_And presents. -SH_

_And Lestrade. -SH_

 

John watched his daddy's thumbs fly over the mobile screen, teeth nibbling at the green marker in his hand. He had important questions that could not be answered over text. When Daddy finally put the phone down on the coffee table next to John's art supplies, John frowned. 

“No, Daddy, I want you to phone him. I want to talk to him.”

“And you will do, when we go to his house tomorrow.”

John bit his lip. He didn't want to wait, but Daddy's tone had been clear, and Daddy rarely changed his mind after it had been made. John stared at the mobile on the coffee table, willing it to ring. When, after only a few moments, it did, he smiled down into his special Christmas project. He knew Daddy wasn't smiling. Daddy never smiled when Uncle Mycroft phoned him. Usually he glared into the phone and didn't answer. This time he allowed John to answer for him, turning his attention back to the police report he'd been reading before John had successfully pleaded his case.

“Hi, Uncle Mycroft. What's your favourite colour that's not green?”

“Yellow.” John could hear the clatter of a computer keyboard in the background, and he knew he didn't have his uncle's full attention. Sometimes that was a good thing, as even a fraction of Mycroft's attention was usually keener than the all of anyone else's. Anyone but John's daddy, at least. John still hoped to keep his motives a secret.

“What about Uncle Greg?”

“Blue.” The keyboard silenced, and John held his breath, wondering whether his uncle would deduce the surprise. “John, I'd like to speak to my brother, please.”

John looked back up at his daddy, who was buried in his report and pretending not to listen to John's conversation. “He doesn't want to talk to you.”

“Yes, I'm aware of that. Please hand him the phone regardless.”

Unwilling to argue with his uncle, John obediently thrust the phone into his daddy's hand. He was unsurprised when Daddy immediately ended the call and resumed reading the report.

“He wanted to talk to you, Daddy.”

“Obviously. He did phone me, after all.”

* * *

Wrapping presents and tying bows turned out to be more difficult than actually making said presents. After three unsuccessful attempts, John was finally satisfied with his work. The detritus of his earlier efforts surrounded him, but he knew Daddy wouldn't be bothered by the mess. He ran to the kitchen to check the time and was startled to see that he only had a few minutes left before Uncle Mycroft's car was scheduled to come.

“Daddy, I'm ready!”

Daddy looked up from his experiment, something exciting about poison and mistletoe and a plumber who'd been found in an attic twenty years ago. He'd been murdered by his own cousin, and Daddy and John were the only people in the whole world who knew the truth.

“Ah, yes, Christmas,” Daddy said, looking John up and down.

“Christmas _Eve_ ,” John corrected. “Where are your presents for Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg?” John didn't dare ask about his own presents, though he'd already been given a few, a Christmas scarf that hung loosely around his neck, and matching hat and mittens that were already lost somewhere in the wreckage of the lounge.

“We don't exchange gifts. There's nothing I could give Mycroft that he couldn't more easily get for himself.”

Suddenly, John realized that if Mycroft had wanted a mug with a Christmas tree and his name drawn in his favourite colour, he would have already gotten it for himself. He looked back to the lounge and bit lightly on his index finger, then remembered that biting on his index finger was _another_ thing that Uncle Mycroft didn't want, and took it out of his mouth.

“John, come here,” Daddy said, and John shuffled slowly to Daddy's chair. “My brother is shockingly sentimental when it comes to you. He will love any present you give him, because he loves you.”

The index finger had found its way back into John's mouth, and he couldn't muster up the will to remove it. He stood there, uncertain and exposed, until Daddy pulled him down for a cuddle on his lap. John rested his head against Daddy's and sighed.

“Now,” Daddy said, “Shall I deduce what you've given to me?”

“No! It's a surprise!” John squirmed around on Daddy's lap to see Daddy's teasing and triumphant smile, then relaxed back into his arms.

The cuddle ended at the sound of two sets of footsteps on the staircase.

“The car is here!” John scrambled to get his coat, then placed the presents carefully into a shopping bag. Inspiration struck, and he put Daddy's violin in the bag, too.

Two men entered, formal and self-assured and completely devoid of all Christmas cheer. John recognized one of them from before, and he also recognized the significance when they went straight into the bedroom. Daddy apparently reached the same conclusion, because he jumped up after them, ordering them to leave everything alone.

“You're staying the night,” one said absently. “We've been told to pack your things.”

John cheered and ran to grab Mousie. “Okay, I'm ready!”

The men went through his and Daddy's things and packed a bag for them, even as Daddy told them not to. Finally Daddy rolled his eyes and gave up on them, instead choosing to sit on the sofa and glower at the world. 

John raced over and hugged Daddy tightly, his excitement completely overriding his daddy's irritation as Mousie was squashed awkwardly between them. “We get to spend real Christmas at Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Greg's house! Not just Christmas Eve!”

Daddy stared at him for a long moment, and John bit his lip. Even though he was sure it wouldn't happen, part of him was afraid Daddy would say they couldn't have Christmas any more. He held his breath until Daddy leaned in to kiss him, and his whole body melted into the affection.

“You are _not_ ready,” Daddy told him. “Where are the hat and mittens I bought you?”

“I lost them.”

Flicking his eyes over the paper, ribbon, and various accoutrements of holiday cheer strewn about the room, Daddy stood. His eyes locked on the Union Jack pillow, and he strode over to pick it up, revealing the missing hat and mittens.

“We'll also need the bags behind the sofa,” Daddy told the men, and John craned his neck to see what was behind him. Before he could get a good look, Daddy pulled him over and began to bundle him up quickly, even as John continued to squirm around to see.

“What's in there?”

Instead of answering, Daddy wrapped John's scarf snugly around his face, effectively muzzling him with the soft wool.

“Daddy, I can't talk,” he mumbled into the scarf while Daddy grabbed his hands and slid the mittens on, somehow working around John's tight grip on Mousie.

“All the better. Let's go.”

* * *

The car ride had been longer than John had wanted, but he'd found that even with several layers of wool covering his face, he was able to hum various Christmas carols. Daddy had allowed it, and John had even caught the small hint of a smile on Daddy's lips as John had bounced to his own version of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” on the other side of the car.

When they arrived, the men helped bring everything to the door, with Daddy carefully shielding John from any glimpse of the bag that John was now sure held his Christmas presents. The door opened and John ran inside, throwing himself into Mycroft's chest.

“I told you to send a car, not a team of idiots to paw through my things,” Daddy said, before anyone had a chance to wish anyone a merry Christmas.

Before Uncle Mycroft could answer, Uncle Greg reached out to pluck the hat off John's head. “Is that my John in there?” he asked, and John nodded, still muzzled by the scarf wrapped around his face. “Let's get you out of all that.”

“Alternatively, we could wrap him in fairy lights and hang him from the tree,” Mycroft suggested, and John shook his head frantically.

“I made you presents!” he shouted as soon as Greg had unwound the scarf from his mouth.

“Let's put them under the tree,” Greg suggested, pulling the mittens from John's hands and helping him out of his coat. “It's not decorated yet. We were hoping you could help us after dinner.”

John was more than willing to help decorate the tree, and was about to say so when Daddy held out Uncle Greg's wallet. “You told us you'd have a proper Christmas dinner, and yet you've ordered Indian takeaway.”

Suddenly everyone was speaking, Uncle Greg to scold Daddy that he'd promised not to pick his pocket, Uncle Mycroft to explain that they'd be having a proper Christmas dinner on Christmas day, and Daddy just to add to the general noise level with commentary on the entire evening.

“What are we eating?” John jumped into the fray, somehow silencing the rest with the innocuous question.

“Chicken tikka masala, saag paneer, and dal makhani.” Daddy answered.

“Those are my favourites!” he exclaimed, and Mycroft peered down at him.

“What a fortunate coincidence that we ordered your exact favourites on the very night that you came to eat dinner with us.”

John hid a smile behind his fingers, knowing that the food had been ordered particularly for him. It was already turning out to be a perfect Christmas.

* * *

Sated from the excessive dinner, they moved themselves into the lounge, where the tree had been set up next to an impressive pile of ornaments. Uncle Mycroft had to go back to his office to work, despite Uncle Greg's protests. 

“They don't take Christmas off in Thailand?” Daddy had asked, looking quite pleased with himself as Uncle Mycroft glared at him. John didn't know what was happening in Thailand, and he didn't really care, as long as it resolved itself in time for Mycroft to open presents and have Christmas with them.

As it was, Daddy cheered up a bit whilst they decorated their tree. When they finished, John cuddled with Daddy on the couch, admiring their work.

“Can I open my presents now?” John asked.

“No. You may open them tomorrow, on Christmas.”

John frowned. “But you told me I can open some on Christmas Eve.”

“That was when we weren't planning to stay the night. Now, you may open them on Christmas day.”

“Here, John.” Uncle Greg handed him a package. “You can open this one. It's from me and Mycroft.”

“I've already told him no, Lestrade,” Daddy said, taking the package from John's hands. His brow furrowed, and he hefted it several times, cocking his head and looking over to Uncle Greg. He finally handed it back to John. “Okay. Just this one.”

Grinning, John ripped into the paper. The box held pyjama bottoms printed with Christmas trees, and a tee-shirt with one giant tree the front. “Oh! Can I wear them right now?” he asked. “Please, Daddy? Please?” He jumped onto Daddy's lap and kissed him.

“You may.”

John jumped out of his daddy's lap and ran to Uncle Greg. “Thank you!”

Uncle Greg laughed and swatted him toward the bedroom. “Go get changed for bed.”

Running to the room that he still thought of as his own, even after he'd been back living at Baker Street for several months, John stripped off the jumper and jeans he'd been wearing and put the pyjamas on. Before Daddy and Uncle Greg would realize that he was taking too long, he ran to Mycroft's office and flung open the door.

He'd forgotten how often Uncle Mycroft worked, and how serious he was when he did so. Mycroft looked up sharply at John's entry. “John, you know that you're to knock before you come in here.”

John hung his head and poked at the rug with his bare toes. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

“Come here, John.” 

Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the floor, John shuffled over to Mycroft's side. Mycroft reached out to place a hand on John's hip, pulling him in further.

“It is unfortunate that I need to work while you visit. I would prefer to spend Christmas Eve with you.”

“Me, too.” He leaned in, and Mycroft rubbed a hand up and down John's back. It felt good through the thin tee shirt.

“I see you've already started exchanging gifts.”

“Just this one.” He was suddenly glad that he hadn't opened all of his presents without Mycroft there. “Daddy says we have to wait for Christmas.”

“John, you have to let Mycroft work.” Greg's voice startled him from the conversation. His uncle stood in the doorway, frowning slightly at John's disobedience. “Kiss him good night.”

After exchanging good night kisses with Mycroft, John walked back into Greg's waiting arms.

“Let's get you to bed. The sooner you go to sleep, the sooner Father Christmas can come.”

“I know Father Christmas isn't real. Daddy and you are going to put out the presents for me.”

Uncle Greg put an arm around his shoulders. “Sometimes it's nice to pretend.”

It sometimes was nice to pretend, but the reality that John was experiencing was far better than any fantasy he could imagine.

* * *

Christmas morning dawned quickly. At one moment, John was lying in bed, hugging Mousie listening to Daddy read about Christmas in Narnia, and the next he was waking up to the soft sound of Daddy breathing into his ear. John hesitated, knowing that he was not to get out of bed or wake anyone until at least half seven. The clock read six fifty-three. John compromised by snuggling into his Daddy's limp arms.

“Happy Christmas, Daddy. Don't wake up. I'm just cuddling you,” he whispered into Daddy's ear.

Contrary to John's command, Daddy woke immediately, arms reflexively tightening round John, and John smiled over at him. “It's Christmas, Daddy.”

“Indeed. Let's wake Mycroft and Greg.”

“I'm not allowed to wake them up until seven thirty.”

“I believe, John, that you are allowed to do what I tell you to do, when I tell you to do it. Is that true?”

John nodded. He was fairly sure that he _had_ to do what his daddy told him to do, though he hadn't tested the limits of that requirement.

“Good. Then I shall get my violin, and we will wake them with a nice Christmas carol. Choose something jaunty.”

“Good King Wenceslas?”

“Hmm, yes.”

They crept down the hallway, John valiantly holding back his giggles at their surprise. As they burst through the door, Daddy began playing the violin, and John turned on the light and started to sing at the top of his lungs, just as Daddy had instructed.

Mycroft and Greg both jerked awake, Uncle Greg grabbing blindly for his phone as Mycroft levelled a piercing glare at Daddy.

“It's not even seven o'clock,” Greg said, blinking away his sleep.

The verse ended, and Daddy grinned out to everyone. “Merry Christmas, dear brother and Greg.”

* * *

They didn't bother eating breakfast, knowing that Christmas dinner would be coming soon. John was too excited to eat, anyway. They went to the lounge, where John's stocking hung stuffed to the brim with chocolate and fruit and all manner of sweets. He quickly decided that he was not, in fact, too excited to eat.

Father Christmas had also left out books and a set of building toys that snapped together to make the Eye of London, complete with little people that rode up and down in the carriages. Uncle Greg and he worked on it together. Daddy was reading something on his smartphone, and John suddenly worried that he'd find a new case in the middle of Christmas.

“Daddy, play a Christmas song with Uncle Mycroft.”

“Mycroft doesn't play piano any more, John. He quit playing because he knew it would upset our mother.”

Mycroft looked up from the file he was reading. “I quit because I no longer had the time to practice, but I still played carols with Sherlock every Christmas, to make her happy.”

“Will you do it now?”

Uncle Mycroft put down his file and walked to the piano. He shared a significant glance with Daddy, and Daddy picked up his violin and joined him. They started off awkwardly, then fell into a rhythm together. It was too much, and John bit his lip and hid his face in Uncle Greg's jumper. Uncle Greg rested a hand on the back of John's head.

“I think we've just witnessed a Christmas miracle.”

* * *

Christmas dinner and the exchange of gifts passed far too quickly for John's liking. It was a blur of wrapping paper, turkey, crackers, pudding, candles, potatoes, paper crowns, and coffee in Christmas mugs that John had made himself. It was everything that he could have hoped for in the first Christmas back with Daddy, and he clung tightly to it, even as his eyelids grew heavy in the late afternoon.

He crawled onto the sofa with Uncle Greg. Mycroft had asked Daddy to talk in his office, and John used the time to doze softly in Greg's lap.

“I've missed having you here,” Uncle Greg told him, rubbing John's back just as he had in those first nights when John had been unable to sleep through until morning.

John nodded into Uncle Greg's thigh. He missed his uncles, too, even though all he'd ever wanted when he lived with them was to have Daddy return and take him back to Baker Street. He wasn't sure what he wished for. Maybe they could all live in a big house together.

“I love you, John.”

John nodded again, too sleepy to speak. Time jumped, and he woke to his daddy's hands on his face. The windows had grown dark and Greg's lap had been replaced with a pillow. As a consolation, Mousie was tucked under his arm.

“It's time to go John.”

He looked around, and all his things had already been packed away. Uncle Greg and Daddy helped him stand, and he blinked away his confusion.

“Where's Uncle Mycroft?”

“I'm right here, John.”

Mycroft appeared, sipping tea from the mug John had made for him.

“Uncle Mycroft, can you really already get anything you want for yourself?”

Mycroft assessed him for a moment, sipping again before answering. “Absolutely not. If I wanted something made by someone dear to me, so that every time I looked at it, I could be reminded of that person, I could never get that in a shop. I would need to wait for that person to make it for me.”

“Like me?” John asked.

“John, that person isn't _like_ you. That person _is_ you.” He put his hand on John's cheek. “Merry Christmas, John. Thank you.”

* * *

The car radio played Christmas carols, but John was too tired to sing along. He lay with his head on Daddy's lap and his fingers lodged firmly in his mouth. “Thank you, Daddy. I really liked my Christmas.”

Daddy ran his fingers through John's hair. “John, everyone liked your Christmas.”


End file.
